I caught your spirit in a rainbow one day
and with it I painted your likeness in my heart
the temperature of the colours
synchronised with the beat
we dreamed we'd never meet due to circumstance
now far away I sense you look my way
as if your soul were nearer to my side
your words unspoken sing to me inside.

Strange music
from the wayside shrine
wind
the wind at prayer
'tis in the mind
creative brain
mankind 

belief in devils
gods and kings
all kinds of things
mankind

dare devil deeds
and sudden wars
misunderstandings
mankind

polluted forests
human waste
fills all the waterways
rots vegetation
blind
mankind

dreamed Utopias
when our earth is one
soon to be gone
mankind                                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th May 2013.

I walked barefoot onto the roofs of the village 
treading on the white shaped stepping stones 
across the sea of daytime into the distance
where the sky melds with the earth in grey mist 
a fur coat ground of huddled bushes covered in snow 
with twigs standing out like signposts to the unknown 

bright specks of yellow light mark the centre of the way 
the dark forms of fir trees accompany me uncertain of direction 
lost among the houses in man's patch of loam 
a crazed puzzle following no rhyme or reason  
created at random by the movements of animals 
this hamlet in its own valley here in the map of the world                               

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd February 2016

I hear the wind 
I hear Wales whispering
its cool fresh air seduces my memory
touches my sentiments
lulls my troubles entertains

pictures long lying 
in archives of my mind reappear 
enact snapshots of happenings 
both happy and sad 
high on a hill 
where I spoke alone with my dad 

such brush of things 
from decades gone before 
knock on the doors of the now 
becoming part of it somehow                  7th March 2015

Day she dawns a distant blue
mixes with the lamp
becomes a purple hue
this days water colour
bathes itself in early year
not perfumed washes
only that of musk-like scented snow
its face is open wide from hill to hill
stretched out across the sky
to fit our village lying still
this february morning
this february dim
as mist dissipates
and sunday is led in

Margaret Ann Waddicor 21st February 2016

Poetry is concentrated thought, 
the essence of an experience put into words. 
A moment in a persons life, 
crystallised into one expression. 

A personal communication with other people, 
almost on an intimate level, 
being something inexpressible that is hinted at, 
and only those who are close to, 
can understand what it means.
 
Human experience, nature, life, 
all stirred in a stew *** of knowledge, 
picked out to taste and savour, 
or to incite new ideas. 

Meditation is concentrated thought/no thought, 
and in some ways poetry is produced by this same quiet, still, 
where searching through our minds we catch at straws 
and find that which interests us, 
we develop this thread into a series of sounds and meanings, 
that when complete, expound one vision, 
one aspect of the diamond we call life. 

Each poet, her/his own creed of conduct, manner, dance, 
to fascinate our friends and fellow lovers of the word, 
with all its myriad meanings and inspired sensations, 
recorded, neatly bundled in the cloth of knowledge 
and taken on with us like a tramps sack, 
into the road that is the rest of our lives.

Gods and devils are created by humans 
they are the comforters
that little children take everywhere
with them and which they feel
they cannot live their lives without.

A kind of fetish with describable attributes
and predictable thoughts
conjured up by ourselves  
to compensate for being out on a limb  
alone in the great hall of matter  
an anchor to stop us from disintegrating  
a book of word- a work of art 
into which we can meld our dreams  
and feel energised and at ease  

a 'being' to goad us into joys  
and a scapegoat  to blame for all our ills  

a figure reflecting our own individual cravings  
that move parallel and within ourselves
akin to the blood that courses through our beings  
supporting our bones and tissue with its imagined presence                    

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th April 2014.

Nobody's reading  
not this tome of words
that flows from brains that soak up sounds
and meanings every day  
they toil and boil the thoughts that singe the mind  
their unheard wisdom in disguise
through eyes of night and daylight showers dimmed  
skimmed from the cream of human kindness

swimming on the surface of the globe  
in green dresses - robes of silk and satin
sliding down the abysses deep and dark  
yet they'ignite a spark of truth for some  
when read at midnight by the candle in our beds  
our heads inclined this way or that  
their knowledge taxed to breaking point
a fact that seams the sheets
about our beings when we're dead

so what - the lark she sings - the mole  
he digs his den deep down in loamy earth
no sight his feet his guides his nose  
his feelers stand the test of time  
no tunnel is too long to reach the line of no return
we burn and at both ends  
we spit a life into the embers
as others make amends for strife and worry
seared from flesh and bone  
a home a house with man and mouse         3rd February 2012.

Time is given - time is measured
time is short  and yet we can stretch it out
if we are aware - know what we are about
touch the quick that time's threads spin in air
catch them - tame them - for they are everywhere
sense the spaces in between
swim right through them as if you dream
meditating on the theme
of something that isn't really there

stilled in a view of sky and sea and land - you'll understand
relativity stood on end - if end it has
as that too is an idea - as much else in our lives
we think we've grasped the wand that takes us to the beyond
far and wide - when
all the time we're sitting here
on this wooden chair
watching naked time in her despair

Margaret Ann Waddicor 28th January 2016

Its pencilled etchings on the breeze
its gentle pastel tints and tones
its magic crystals falling
celestial celebrations in the sky
the wistful hoof of deer
or hop of mouse across the snow
the sculpted thin arrangement
of the reeds and grasses sticking through
conducting a stilled soliloquy  
in quiet of clearings among trees
where dancing snowflakes come to rest
the hiss of frozen moisture on the run across the lakes
the thuds on sheds- the crunch like sugared icing
on the paths - the swish of skis and sledges passing by
the echoing booms as the lakes lid cracks
the whistle through of the wind whisking out the tracks
a symphony in grey and white well into night
when deeper tones of brown and black
make background shadows in the woods

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th January 2016

In the boldness of stepping out into the unknown
we meet our challenges
darkness hides unseen dangers
some of which we expect

the ocean of thought
that man has written about through the ages
is equally daunting
if all things are seen as complete barriers
we shrink from knowing of them

instead they are meted out in smaller doses
so as to awaken our curiosity
inspire our minds to find out more
and goad our own creativity
into making its own decisions about life
and what is worth knowing selectivity being a key word
for how to become a well educated human being

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th January 2016

Life is beautiful - and yet
life is strange
life is tantalising my mind
its elusive jumps and starts
give it an impetus
as I unwind from nature's wonderful excess
undress and offer myself - soon
not yet
I expect you're wondering
as I am too
what will happen if I do
we'll have to fantasise it
because - as yet - we haven't met

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016

The morning misty white
winter's night turns through blue to pink
a delicate porcelain haze
diaphanous scarf of silk that floats
above the sleeping hills  
this season
like a dream
creates the beautiful scene
that decorates the window every day
of which I never tire
an ever changing kaleidoscope
of colours shapes and sounds
but now
all is cloaked in snow in mounds

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016

Frost fingers all in mesmerised still
bright crystals decorate like candied sticks
all is clothed to act this winter's solemn dance
through our imagination
trees bustle in the valley their heads of palest grey
while hills in heavy moleskin coats mimic the clouds
those cumulus shrouds that drape our season all in white
so cold - so desperate - a sense of nature's sleep
petrified each straw - left like sculptures bent
and when the dawn its blue turns soft sweet pink
we gasp - how beautiful the view as if 'twere new

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016

The drone of a plane
across the pale blue sky in winter's white
where sunlight touches trees on hills
warms the walls of houses  
packed like cards
their roofs like shards all placed at angles
tilted lights
a still that calms the senses
as one gazes at the view

Margaret Ann Waddicor 16th January 2016

The willow wrote my thoughts
on the surface of the river
remember them then she said
but I did not
they flowed on down into the sea
of my other thoughts
and mixed up in its melting ***
churning and turning about
in the weeds at the bottom of nowhere

we catch glimpses of our old thoughts
often inspired by something that moves us
and if we don't write them down
they go on and are forgotten
this is part of what poets try to capture
the moments that have stirred the mind
into sensing something special
something out of the ordinary
and so a poem is born

Margaret Ann Waddicor

Will I see another dawn
another night 
another way 
for now I'm ticking slow 
and I'd very much like you to know 
that I love you 
I think you know 
but I'll tell you so

the moon is low 
the summer's gone 
my autumn's come 
farewell to you 
farewell to every one 
my life is done 
my own particular heaven won
I see beyond 
into the dark 
into the light 
I'll die tonight

Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th September 2015

Happy summer touch your window
as you meet her perfumes free
the clover on the lawn its magic galaxy
the roses on your path
make soft the fall of footsteps
gently sounding with the bee
the dance of insects in the shade
each blade is made to shine
in the showers that came at night
a cool that nature covets
when the stars have lost their light

Margaret Ann Waddicor 8th July 2014.

Spring is come and spring is going
and no word from my love is flowing
down the page of purest white
with ink so black as darkest night

winter thaw has finished now
and spring took over with the bough
all dressed in coloured petals all
fit for the hall of a wedding ball

so give me sign that you are there
where the brook is purling fair
in that very secret place
I want to stroke your sensitive face

so well I do remember then
when we sat and watched the wren
sing his song so piercing loud
like a cheering teenage crowd

as we sunk together down
on the grasses golden brown
found each others tender dream
as flowers floated on the stream

ah would that that time come again
so now could be and not a then
the wren he sings but no one's there
except my thoughts as ever ware

time passes like a drifting shawl
across the sky and we enthral
like memories that light our sky
of lying there just you and I

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2012.

We poets calmly expound ideas and theories
filling them with rhyme and reason
expecting enlightenment 
to beam across the world 
like gods revealing the temple of our minds 
to all
unclothing hidden thoughts 
gleaned from the
coffers of ideas

lifting the lids of treasured phrases that inspire 
dramatic waves of foam from poets 
before carrying on across the sands of time 
into supposed infinity

Many end up in dusty books unread 
or in the loft among forgotten dreams 
and untidy experiences
the drawings on the wallpaper 
of other's lives 
now covered with new fashions of papering
obsolete and sadly ignored

each individual person has their own philosophy
their own unique vision of reality
each utterance describes us 
in more potent ways than pictures
our sense of feeling alive
expressed in neat patterns of symbols
forever changing meaning as time passes. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor September 1st 2014.

We wish - we wish we were someone else
something else but we're we  
I wish I were a lioness but that is not to be
I wish - I wish the stars and moon  
don't you - face in the mirror
are you my other self
my soul - my heart beats - smile
but I'm only the cat that sits on the shelf
looking pretty I admit it myself  
but now I've met my other self
the one that fits right next to me
no longer full of wondering
fulfilled and happy in my dream
life's brighter than it seemed
and now the future's there
as always it will be - to fill with love and care
let down my hair - give you my heart
spin a life that's now - our art

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th November 2015
Written for Charlotte and Anders for Christmas

Into the tunnel, not of love,
not of ghosts, but MRI,
totally still you must lie said he with a squint, 
with needles for this and for that
to control the peristaltic movements,
one lies to be heated by fire from beneath, 
in a terrible sheath of metal
to weigh down your middle, 
then it begins the booms and the blows

your breathing you suppose is as normal, 
sweet music plays in your ear phones, 
(and strangely enough in the key of the booms)
as you slowly get stiller and stiller, 
and feel you will never recover, 
your mind wanders here and there
out of the funnel to friends,
but you're there all alone so alone,
and wish to go home.

a sudden boom hammer like thunder, 
you feel you're down under the sod
in your cylindrical coffin from God.

all at once you're dragged out, after the hour,
yes we've got all we want says the man,
get up if you can, but you can't, 
as all is stood still, even will won't work,
and you walk on your way heavy footed and dizzy,
befuddled and muddled, but glad that its over,
its no dance in clover, oh no, 
but just something one has to go through.

Our consciousness paints the view,
colours the flowers,
touches the cotton grass's softness,
its sturdy thin stem sways with our heartbeats
in the freedom of the mountain air,
and we know then that we are, we exist. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor

Flatdal mist swathes the valley
lifts Skorve mountain in air
glimpses of dark crags and shining rocks
a thin sprinkling of snow
the trees hang clusters
of autumn tinted leaves
like decorations in a row
the meadows green below
in silky subtle dress
soft blues all shot with yellow
the lady birches swing their weeping fronds
over the mirror-like black ponds
as silver light plays
on the surface of the still lying lake

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2015

Today the sun burst through grey clouds
and sported great cumulus
sailing high up in the blue nordic ocean of the sky

below
resting on the earth
the indigo of the hills shading to infinity
strange distant escape routes for the mind

storm shadows shading the picture
slowly encroaching on this idyll
in ominous grey-black layers
silhouetting the colourful lupins

ah lovely contrasts
how they lift our spirits from the mundane
and send our imagination into celestial dwellings
we only see in our dreams

now the dawn of another day
has come
and gone
and evening light dwindles
behind the winding sheet of the weather
that earlier hid the bright sun

a sense of quiet
permeates the atmosphere
birds have disappeared
they were peppering the birch tree
most of the day
clouds
small puffs of damp
some of which have been stark white in the sunshine
have become pale blue-grey

all is spread like a water-colour wash
beneath a slightly pink pastel powdery paper sky
the hills close their flowers
hush their hawks
streams carry on their gurgle and chatter
among the rocks
and the firs stand upright
to reach a better view of the valley

while we shut out day
and stare into the dark
becoming a part of it

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th December 2015 (edited then)

Breath of dragons fill the vale
curling round the trees
carding on the mountain firs and pines
the wool of lambs still strung on barbed wire fence
their eerie horns of rusty iron
among the bramble thorns
no smell save that of pungent leaves
or rotting timber piled
where wrens and robins nest

this damp parade so often comes at dawn
the cows sit silent even yawn
their patches matching those
of moss turned brown on stones
while up above the dragon hides in pale blue skies
his mocking laugh spills daffodils of sun
he's having fun at our expense

while damp our eyelids weigh
our heads bowed down
we critters in the towns
the fog horns blow their melancholy drone
lost is the world we've always known
changed by mysterious theatrical mists
into a mosquito bliss
preparing battle swords to tap our blood
when sunshine sallies forth and lights the flood

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th May 2012.

In clay from ancient times
our tread has deepened faded
graded its declines
those patterns of our gait
translate the size and height
our stance
we rise to walk upright
seize weapons of the hand and mind
our troubles multiply
our brains try hard to understand
have we
do we ever progress
we think it so
we know
and still we make the same mistakes
that man made eons ago

Margaret Ann Waddicor 18th November 2011.

The bed still flowers
where your ashes were spread 
now seven years after your death 
the breath of the wind and the rain
still falls on the pond
making rings rings of time 
silently rippling memories 
they tell the old story again 
how you used to laugh dance and sing 
full of life full of joy 
I see your face as now you smile 
you've done many a mile in the dark 
but your spirit still hides in the park

Margaret Ann Waddicor 26th May 2015
About Roland Michael Harvey, my father.

Each human searches for the passion that suits them best,
to feel at ease and happy with their lives;
they need something,
just something that is beyond them,
an aim out of reach.

For a woman, a man,
for all religions, a philosophy,
a leader to worship and adore, follow and copy.

When in love this is the same passion
that guides our feelings
and establishes so deeply the sense of love,
that it lasts forever, or doesn't.

The same self-suggestion of passion we nurture,
cultivate, breed in our minds and lives,
because it gives us meaning, an aim
and at the same time sensations of joy
that are unsurpassed.

It creates great arts,
great expressions of man's wonder at the universe
and all its explanations that,
greater than ourselves, pace about this little planet,
out there in the unknown depths of nowhere.

Of course we exaggerate, enhance what is of pleasure,
shun that which is of pain,
yet those two define each other,
without them they wouldn't exist, we wouldn't even exist.

This kind of enhancement can take many forms
using the whole gamut of human methods of expression,
passion and powerful intoxication,
not unlike alcohol or drugs,
we do not become more intensely intelligent
or aware under their influence,
quite the opposite, we loose ourselves, our rational minds,
and plunge into the depths of this other world,
parallel to our own mundane existence,
into the euphoria of pleasure.

Throughout the history of man
are numerous examples of this over indulgence
in things, seemingly giving high pleasure
to our minds and bodies.

To take only one example, the Romans,
we all know how the fall of Rome
affected the world of pleasure seeking human beings,
and yet we would not be without it.

It has produced everything we have created,
it is close to the spark of life that generates life at all,
we may look at all things with seemingly
rational, serious researches and make exact machines.

But in the end it is the leaps of intuitive creativity
given birth from passion,
that produces the wondrous machines
of our industrial existence.

Forced into this concrete, iron, built up world
by our own choices,
we long for the simplicity of nature's
own ways of existence, and look to her to yet again.

Embellish our chimney'd cities
with things almost forgotten,
our longings can turn to nature,
to discover the such-ness of all things found on earth.

A direct contact with the spirit of the world
which clothes itself in mysterious theories,
or expounds itself yet again in religious ceremonies,
all trying desperately to find
the hidden gem that explains it all.

This we shall never find, because we are what is,
only our minds weave patterns never ending,
thoughts and fantasies, dreams and visions,
Utopias's and heaven's,
hells, gods and fiery demons -
oh what a rich and magnificently
embroidered life is this life we live,
on this beautiful blue planet.                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2011

I agree that love is the most important,
but it is after all an idea, a figure of speech,
like time, also a non existent element
which can be bent and extended
according to circumstances in the mind.

Love is an expression of a sentiment,
we give it it’s worth,
each in our own individual manner,
being different and yet the same,
each expressing their love,
which after all is self love too,
as without the capacity
to love oneself, one cannot love another.

Falling in love is only an emphasis
on those feelings that create our sensations
of need and giving to a hyper sensitive state
which permeates our all and in some way
takes over our common sense in its fervour,
there, to goad the ****** functions
to reproduce the species; that is the grand puzzle,
why do we wish to reproduce ourselves?          

Margaret Ann Waddicor January 2013.

WHITE DOWN

White down
so high 
and yet so lowly, soft,

your flecks of light
where brown turf darkens 
damp,

so innocently growing
'spite the weather;

torn clouds,
against the blue or grey,

beside you green of moss
stone, heather, 
grasses, hay,

Not lauded, 
given honours like the rose
but there the mountain knows
your sweet repose. 

M. A. Waddicor
10th sept 2011.

Translated into Norwegian...

MYRULL
 
Kvite dun
så høgt på strå
og likevel så kravlaus, mjuk.
 
Lysa dine logar
der torva mørknar
fuktig, brun.
 
Du veks uskuldig, rein
trass uvêr,
rivne skyer
mot det blå og grå.
 
Ved sida di er grøne mosen,
stein, lyng,
gras og vier.
 
Ikkje lovprisa
eller gjeve heidersteikn, som rosa bar;
men fjellet kjenner til
din vakre kvilestad.
 
            M. A. Waddicor/ Gjendikting ved Åse Lilleskare Faugstad

COTTON GRASS YOU WAVE

Waving at the sky,
you tufts of downy white,
your presence in the marsh,
or standing on the cracked dry earth,
the bottom of a bog.

So delicate you are,
in such a place,
where winter blizzards blow,
and icy waters, snow, 
cover your bed. 

Yet there you always are, 
a faithful friend to travellers,
a light where grey skies dull,
a flag to show where not to go 
in rain.

As pretty as a poem tossed 
on hardy stems
not pictured in a painting
yet as dainty, beautiful 
and free, 
as any bloom can be. 

M. Ann Waddicor 
10th September 2011.

Floating in the day
today
it is today
the first day of the year
in blue
so blue
so blue
so blue
the sky is full of cloud
a roof of dew
of dew
of dew
the trees like silhouettes of black
although a darker green
of green
the houses hiding in the mist
they almost can't be seen
be seen
the weeds that stick up here and there
make arabesques up in the air
the air
and all seems in a dream
a dream
a dream

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Diagnosis cancer
what goes through the mind
am I left behind
on the dump just rotting
cast out no longer viable
my bodies not reliable
its growing funny things

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Its growing funny things
perhaps I'm growing wings
so fly me up and out of it
can't stand its din get rid of it
this mood that snatched my breath
I'd like to take a clout at it
it could cause my death

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Let doctors fry and poison me
they've done it once before to me
I'm knockin on the door of doom
shut in an MRI its boom

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Its beat, its heat, its feat complete
rotting on the ******* heap
shouting like a lamb its bleat

Baeeeeee

Cut me, slash me, burn my bones,
I'l be new. I'm going home
home where I belong...

I'm still here to sing my song

BOOM BOOM BOOM
SCREAM.

The horses are restless
the dogs run about
the birds all a flutter    

what was it

the children are screaming
and laughing so loud
the cars and the busses
the usual fusses and bangs    

how so

I don't know any more
my minds in a turmoil was that it    

or not

my own psychological state
goings on in my pate
or is it too late to address it

this stress I am feeling
in hurried state running
from what    

I know not.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 1st November 2014.

I caught your spirit in a rainbow
one day
and with it I painted your likeness
in my heart
the temperature of the colours
synchronised with the beat
we dreamed we'd never meet
due to circumstance
now far away I sense you look
my way
as if your soul were nearer to my side
your words unspoken
sing to me inside.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 15th October 2014.

Spiralling the thermals in the wide blue sky
I fell towards a meadow full of flowers
the colours multiplied as I descended
this spinning in a dance
upended    downside up  
upended   downside up

sizzling in the heat of summers day    
I landed in some hay
lay there to meditate on what I should do next
getting quite perplexed   quite perplexed

was it you who came right then
seduced me in my den of corn
the reason why my daughter’s born    
today
is singing in her bed of feathers    
rolling on the floor

picking up and putting down    
picking up and putting down
life is turning round and round
I'll do that till I drown    I drown  
tomorrow    time that doesn't come  
I'll learn to borrow   learn to borrow

thrown about in troubles with my health
never one to come to sudden wealth
crawling through the gates of hell with stealth
never on the shelf    never on the shelf
out the other side where dawn brings in the tide
across the sands of time to touch my toes

what future lies ahead    nobody knows 
no nobody    nobody    nobody    nobody knows.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 16th October 2014.

As the night
wanes
the heart beats carry on
my mind's awake and cannot sleep
at four
the hour before the dawn of summer days

but it is winter
and the snow's not yet begun to thaw
outside our door
where little birds find crumbs
out in the ochre coloured dim
purple thoughts float across the bland of sky

an even petal-smooth roof for us below
where lying in our beds we sigh and yawn
soon light will creep along the view
touch the fir tree tips
and make a warmer scene
as we come out of this times dream

Margaret Ann Waddicor 30th December 2015

Flung  
flailing about aimlessly
dancing like an autumn wind
switching back and forth in urgent gusts
we
like leaves on water bend with the flow
no choice
to go against is futile
shortens life
makes hard the path we tread
from birth to death

in a breath it is done
over
past
in a gale of dimension
we twist and turn
plunge and surface
eels of existence
on a solid stone planet of fire

gaunt shadows give night
or people the shape of silence
with jagged forms
that cut our psyches
squeeze us through the mangel of time
onto the plates that comprise the whole
small beings in a vast universe

Margaret Ann Waddicor 30th December 2015

Love the greatest teacher,
she teaches us to understand ourselves, 
to reveal that love is not an outer thing, 
it’s deep within.

Before we can receive, we give,
and giving find the jewel of human worth, 
we have this trait from birth
like many things,
quelled by the laws of adults in their ignorance.

Born with the bond that ties all spirits close,
and when it manifests its magical sensation,
goaded by our state of mind,
we revel in its complete attention, 
to details sensitive and full of joy.

Her soft caresses touch our quick, 
her ties established hard to break,
her empathy with all that lives and breathes,
she is our welfare, our religion, our raison d'être.    

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th November 2013.

A star fell down from heaven, was it you? 
A leaf fell from a tree, a little letter just for me, was it from you? 

A feather from the nest took my spirit in an arabesque, 
the birds, their voices singing through the dew, 
my dreams of you come true.

Take heart, we are apart, so long, yet messages come through, 
in such ways as only those whose sentiments 
touch nature's traits, decipher them, read what she says, 
such blessing is one's heightened sensitivity, 
when love flows with the river through this life of many joys,
awakened to all subtle things that change the light, 
colour the view, charge the psyche with new visions, 
teach us to create and recreate.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th July 2013

Love is the touch of one with another,
the breeze blows the frond to brush the face
we experience the sensitive stirring of the cells
they send a message to the brain
that translates them
sometimes into this state we call love
because it is up to us to be sensitive to love
it is the sense of existence that gives us joy
fills our sense of well being
with something indescribable
makes the world a place of understanding and beauty
makes life worth living.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 3rd February 2015.

It is the mystical evening
when Christmas is rejoiced
carols too are voiced

all to celebrate a man
who lived so long ago
yet only recent in our history

we do not know
his date of birth
but like to think it's now

when winter's s dark
turns into light
and lights up all the snow

this magic story still inspires
and makes all children
feel it's glow

cheers the spirits in the dim
satisfies
our every whim

life's a dream
or so it seems
yet we are in control

Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2015

Stilled the mind 
trees dissolve into the ether of day 
they are 
but they are what
we are 
but we are what 
no different 
and only here when day presents its being 

others say their meaning 
are we here 
if nothing else were here
we would cease to be 
we're only here as a complimentary
opposite
to not being

as all is such 
no words describe what is
they're abstract 
all in the mind of humankind 
concocted letters composed in rows 
or backwards
upside down 
our stretching out of thoughts to find a truth 
that never can be found
our psyches continually confound

MY ART

You are my royalty
my queen
my swan
my red red rose

you who float and rock my sea
lying there beside me
as I dream

the figurehead of my ship
your presence
dominating the scene

you are my sun in winter
my rainbow
in the heat of summers brighter skies

the iris of your eyes
reflect their colours
green and blue

you'll never know
how much I love
love you

my sweetest scent
you're heaven sent

swinging in the branches
of the trees
where nightingales
sing their songs
of sensuous tones

I'll sweep you off your feet
and ride with you
the stallion of the breeze

we'll never part
you are my love
my art

Margaret Ann Waddicor 14th December  2015

Under the bleached bluff
sea shells shape the bay
the grey and white
like seagulls
shines in sun

each tuft of grass is hardy
rough
tousled by sudden wafts
of salty gusts
that ride the waves towards the land
where
free as air
the litter flies across the sands

swung in the sky
the birds are tossed
their cries
those far off saddened screams
that make the coast their theme

a contrast to the balmy days
when summer winds are warm
and breeze
a welcome sense of calm

the tide comes in
now challenging
its rattle of those shells
percussion in the out of doors

a band that takes repeats
encores
for granted
while it roars

until the change relieves its chores
receding back again
to join the great wide ocean main

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th December 2015

The darkness folds in outside here
not to lighten
before nine in the morning
slowly turning to light again

nights are pitch black
beautiful onyx nights
that carry on their cupola
stars
just as the ceilings
in ancient Egyptian graves

silence fills the void
almost an uncanny silence
that makes one stop up
to listen

in the woods
the moss has grown so thick
and green
it almost resembles snow
passing through the many trunks of trees
we marvel at its coat

some beautiful rounded stones
making imaginary secret chests
a tiny fir growing on their velvet tops
one stone is the shape
of a pointed kind of pyramid
with moss at its summit
looking like a miniature mountain
with clouds on top

Let's oftener talk of noble deeds
and rarer of the bad ones,
and sing about our happy days
and not about the sad ones.
We are not made to fret and sigh,
and when grief sleeps, to wake it,
bright happiness is standing by
this life is what we make it.

Let's find the sunny side of men.
Or be believer in it
a light there is in every soul
that takes the pains to win it,
Oh; there is slumbering good in all,
and we perchance may wake it.
Our hands contain the magic wand,
this life is what we make it.

Then here's to those whose loving hearts
shed light and joy about them
thanks to them for countless gems
we ne'er had known without them:
Oh; this should be a happy world,
to all who may partake it.
The fault's our own if it is not
this life is what we make it.

Revolving, evolving
this earth its changing coat
a flower

We are the elements toys 
played with by the will of the winds 
our seasons come and go as theirs do 
we are fruitful in youth
matured in old age 
sometimes we fall too soon 
before we're ripe 
at other times we rot on the tree

we have almost as much say in the matter 
as an apple 
our very nature 
governing much of what happens to us 
freak meetings 
from them develop blights or flights of fancy 
swinging with the patterns of the seasons 
fixed in the mud of convention 

unless we're free 
free of the world's moral codes 
yet keeping to those of worth 
existing as best we can under the heavens 
on this beautiful crust of earth 
until we meld into 
and become again 
a part of its make up 
in harmony with its ecosystem

Margaret Ann Waddicor 15th September 2015

Strange music
from the wayside shrine
wind
the wind at prayer
'tis in the mind
creative brain
mankind 

Belief in devils
gods and kings
all kinds of things
mankind

Dare devil deeds
and sudden wars
misunderstandings
mankind

Polluted forests
human waste
fills all the waterways
rots vegetation
blind
mankind

Dreamed Utopias
when our earth is one
soon to be gone
mankind                                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th May 2013.